


Support

by WarHammerKlavier



Category: Ultraviolet (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23065297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarHammerKlavier/pseuds/WarHammerKlavier
Summary: Mornings are so hard these days.
Kudos: 5





	Support

**Author's Note:**

  * For [javertwenttoheaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/javertwenttoheaven/gifts).



Pearse has always loved the early hours of the day, but mornings are so hard these days. The first few minutes that he transitions from slumber to wakefulness always make him dizzy, even when he is lying down. His mind would struggle to comprehend where he is, or why his body feels like it has been hit by a car, and his head would always feel like it’s stuffed full of cotton. Peeling his eyes open unexpectedly requires a lot of energy. After he manages to keep his eyes open, he would lie in bed for a few minutes, gathering the willpower to get out of bed, slowly realizing that his sleepwear is completely soaked with sweat yet again.

Getting himself to sit up is a glacial affair. Even after a night’s rest, his muscles remain sore and tremble under the strain of pushing himself to an upright position. He has not been able to kneel for months now - he does his prayers sitting on the edge of his bed, his overworked spine fighting to hold him straight until he finally gives up and curls down, burying his sweaty face in his palms as he recites his devotion. When he finishes, he reaches for the chair by his bed, using it as leverage for him to get himself to stand up. He is lucky the chair is sturdy and does not move as he uses it as a crutch, because if he falls he does not know if he would be able to get himself back up.

His legs might well be immovable pillars, for all the effort it requires to lift them up and put one in front of the other. He stumbles into his bathroom, washes his face, and makes himself presentable (or, well, as presentable as he can, as his clothes all hang loosely on his frame now and hardly allow him to look professional). He hasn’t had the appetite for breakfast in a long time, which is fortunate, considering that he doesn’t have the energy nor time to prepare one. With all the time he’s taken to get himself ready, Angela and her car should be right in front already. 

Angela’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she lets herself in and helps him to the car. The short journey exhausts him. The world is a blur before his eyes, and it spins and darkens as he lowers himself into the passenger seat. Angela turns the radio down when his grimace indicates his growing headache and allows him to close his eyes for the few minutes that it takes for them to get to the headquarters.

He needs to rest three times between getting out of the car and getting to his office. It is humiliating, but Angela is ever-patient, even though she thinks he can’t see the frown on her face. She’s clearly mentally categorizing his symptoms again. They finally reach his office. His hand shakes as he retrieves his keys from his trouser pocket. She accepts them gently, inserts a silver key into the lock, turns it, and holds the door open for him. His desk is a mere seventeen paces away; surely his battered body can make it that far? He has had to do it every single day.

Today, his foot catches on an uneven spot on the floor. Swaying, he gropes blindly for a desk, a chair, anything to support him, but all the same he crashes on the tiles as Angela closes the door. In vain, he places his hands next to his chest and attempts to push himself up. Angela lets a wordless sound of surprise and hovers uncertainly for a millisecond before pulling him up. She heaves with the effort. He is not a small man, even now. It takes a while, but they finally get him to his chair. His head is pounding and his vision is dimming alarmingly.

“Breathe,” she tells him. “Close your eyes.”

It is so difficult to get his breath back in control. His chest heaves like he has just run a marathon. His vision is spotty and he can hardly see Angela beside him. They remain there in silence until he’s calmed down.

“Do you think,” Angela ventures, “a cane might be useful?” She’s saying it like it’s something she’s had on her mind for a bit. Clearly she’s thinking of all the times he has had to lean on walls and railings and other vertical structures to help propel himself forward. 

They both know that Pearse can be a proud man, sinful that it is, but Pearse surprises himself when he does not mind this idea at all. He is so tired of being weak and in pain all the time. He lets out a faint chuckle. “You know what, I think that might be a good idea.”

Pearse is, however, not surprised when Angela leaves his office and retrieves a cane from her own.


End file.
